in  ^Defeat 


Defeat  may  serve  as  well  as  victory 
To  shake  the  soul  and  let  the  glory  out. 
When  the  great  oak  is  straining  in  the  wind, 
The  boughs  drink  in  new  beauty,  and  the  trunk 
Sends  down  a  deeper  root  on  the  windward  side. 
Only  the  soul  that  knows  the  mighty  grief 
Can  know  the  mighty  rapture.    Sorrows  come 
To  stretch  out  spaces  in  the  heart  for  joy. 

Edwin  Markham. 


The  Man  with  the  Hoe 


The  Man  with  the  Hoe 
and  Other  Poems 


By 

Edwin   Markham 


DECORATED    BT  HOWARD    PTLE 


New  York 

Doubleday  &  McClure  Co. 
1900 


Copyright,  1899,   1900, 

by    ' 
EDWIN  MARKHAM 


THE  DEVINNE  PRESS. 


TO 

EDMUND    CLARENCE  STEDMAN 

FIRST    TO    HAIL   AND    CAUTION    ME 


M181631 


Prefatory    Note 

Many  of  these  poems  have  appeared  in 
Scribner  'j,  The  Century,  The  Atlantic,  and 
the  San  Francisco  Examiner,  and  my 
thanks  are  due  them  for  permission  to 
republish. 


EDWIN   MARKHAM. 


BROOKLYN,  N.  Y. 


The    Contents 

The   Man   with   the   Hoe,    i 

A   Look  into  the   Gulf,   4 

Brotherhood,   6 

Song  of  the  Followers  of  Pan,  7 

Little   Brothers  of  the  Ground,    8 

Wail   of  the  Wandering   Dead,    10 

A   Prayer,    1 3 

The   Poet,    15 

The  Whirlwind   Road,    17 

The   Desire  of  Nations,    1 8 

The  Elf  Child,   23 

The   Goblin   Laugh,    24 

Poetry,    25 

ix 


The    Contents 

A   Meeting,    26 

Infinite   Depths,    27 

A   Leaf  from   the   Devil's  Jest-Book,    28 

The   Paymaster,    30 

The  Last  Furrow,    31 

In   the  Storm,    33 

After   Reading  Shakspere,    34 

The  Hidden  Valley,    36 

The   Poets,    37 

Love's  Vigil,    38 

Two  at  a   Fireside,   40 

The   Butterfly,   41 

To  William  Watson,   42 

Keats  A-Dying,   43 

Man,  44 

The   Cricket,   45 

In   High   Sierras,   46 

The  Wharf  of  Dreams,   47 

To   Louise   Michel,   49 

Shepherd   Boy  and  Nereid,    50 

A   Song  at  the  Start,    52 

My   Comrade,    54 

A   Lyric  of  the   Dawn,    55 

Joy  of  the  Morning,   62 


The   Contents 


Youth  and  Time,   63 

A   Satyr  Song,   65 

A   Cry  in  the  Night,   66 

Fays,   67 

In   Death  Valley,   68 

At  Dawn,  69 

"  Follow  Me,"   70 

In  Poppy  Fields,   71 

The  Joy  of  the  Hills,   72 

The  Invisible   Bride,   74 

The  Valley,   76 

The  Climb  of  Life,   77 

The  Tragedy,   79 

Divine  Vision,   80 

Midsummer  Noon,   81 

One  Life,   One   Law,    82 

Griefs,   83 

An  Old  Road,   84 

The  New   Comers,    85 

Music,   86 

Fay  Song,   87 

The  Old  Earth,   88 

Divine  Adventure,    89 

Song   Made   Flesh,   91 

xi 


The   Contents 

To   High-born   Poets,   92 

The  Toilers,   94 

On  the  Gulf  of  Night,   96 

A   Harvest  Song,   98 

Two  Taverns,    100 

The  Man  under  the  Stone,    101 

Song  to  the   Divine  Mother,    103 

The  Flying  Mist,    107 

From  the  Hand  of  a   Child,    109 

At  the   Meeting  of  Seven  Valleys,    1 1 1 

The   Rock-Breaker,    1 1  2 

These  Songs  Will   Perish,    113 


xn 


TheManwiflifheHoe 


From  (he Painting  by  Jean  Francois 
Millet. 


The    Man   with    the    Hoe 

Written  after  seeing  Millet' s  World-Famous  Painting 

God  made  man  in  His  own  image, 

in  the  image  of  God  made  He  him. —  Genesis. 

Bowed  by  the  weight  of  centuries  he  leans 
Upon  his  hoe  and  gazes  on  the  ground, 
The  emptiness  of  ages  in  his  face, 
And  on  his  back  the  burden  of  the  world. 
Who  -made  him  dead  to  rapture  and  despair, 


Man  witA  the  Hoe 


A  thing  that  grieves  not  and  that  never  hopes, 
Stolid  and  stunned,  a  brother  to  the  ox? 
Who  loosened  and  let  down  this  brutal  jaw  ? 
Whose  was  the  hand  that  slanted  back  this  brow  ? 
Whose  breath  blew  out  the  light  within  this  brain  ? 
Is  this  the  Thing  the  Lord  God  made  and  gave 
To  have  dominion  over  sea  and  land  ; 
To  trace  the  stars  and  search  the  heavens  for 

power  ; 

To  feel  the  passion  of  Eternity? 
Is  this  the  Dream  He  dreamed  who  shaped  the  suns 
And  marked  their  ways  upon  the  ancient  deep  ? 
Down  all  the  stretch  of  Hell  to  its  last  gulf 
There  is  no  shape  more  terrible  than  this  — 
More  tongued  with  censure  of  the  world's  blind 

greed  - 

More  filled  with  signs  and  portents  for  the  soul- 
More  fraught  with  menace  to  the  universe. 

What  gulfs  between  him  and  the  seraphim  ! 
Slave  of  the  wheel  of  labor,  what  to  him 
Are  Plato  and  the  swing  of  Pleiades  ? 
What  the  long  reaches  of  the  peaks  of  song, 
The  rift  of  dawn,  the  reddening  of  the  rose? 

2 


The  Man  with  the  Hoe 

Through  this  dread  shape  the  suffering  ages  look ; 
Time's  tragedy  is  in  that  aching  stoop; 
(Through  this  dread  shape  humanity  betrayed, 
Plundered,  profaned  and  disinherited, 
Cries  protest  to  the  Judges  of  the  World^) 
A  protest  that  is  also  prophecy. 

O  masters,  lords  and  rulers  in  all  lands, 

Is  this  the  handiwork  you  give  to  God, 

This  monstrous  thing  distorted  and  soul-quenched  ? 

How  will  you  ever  straighten  up  this  shape; 

Touch  it  again  with  immortality  ; 

Give  back  the  upward  looking  and  the  light; 

Rebuild  in  it  the  music  and  the  dream ; 

Make  right  the  immemorial  infamies, 

Perfidious  wrongs,  immedicable  woes? 

•^ 
O  masters,  lords  and  rulers  in  all  lands, 

How  will  the  FuUire  reckon  with  this  Man? 
How  answer  his  brute  question  in  that  hour 
When  whirlwinds  of  rebellion  shake  the  world? 
How  will  it  be  with  kingdoms  and  with  kings  - 
With  those  who  shaped  him  to  the  thing  he  is- 
When  this  dumb  Terror  shall  reply  to  God, 
After  the  silence  of  the  centuries? 

3 


A    Look   into   the   Gulf 

I  looked  one  night,  and  there  Semiramis, 
With  all  her  mourning  doves  about  her  head, 
Sat  rocking  on  an  ancient  road  of  Hell, 
Withered  and  eyeless,  chanting  to  the  moon 
Snatches  of  song  they  sang  to  her  of  old 
Upon  the  lighted  roofs  of  Nineveh. 
And  then  her  voice  rang  out  with  rattling  laugh 
"The  bugles!   they  are  crying  back  again  - 
Bugles  that  broke  the  nights  of  Babylon, 
And  then  went  crying  on  through  Nineveh. 


A  Look  into  the  Gulf 

Stand  back,  ye  trembling  messengers  of  ill ! 

Women,  let  go  my  hair:   I  am  the  Queen, 

A  whirlwind  and  a  blaze  of  swords  to  quell 

Insurgent  cities.      Let  the  iron  tread 

Of  armies  shake  the  earth.      Look,  lofty  towers: 

Assyria  goes  by  upon  the  wind!" 

And  so  she  babbles  by  the  ancient  road, 

While  cities  turned  to  dust  upon  the  Earth 

Rise  through  her  whirling  brain  to  live  again 

Babbles  all  night,  and  when  her  voice  is  dead 
Her  weary  lips  beat  on  without  a  sound. 


Brotherhood 

The  crest  and  crowning  of  all  good, 
Life's  final  star,  is  Brotherhood; 
For  it  will  bring  again  to  Earth 
Her  long-lost  Poesy  and  Mirth; 
Will  send  new  light  on  every  face, 
A  kingly  power  upon  the  race. 
And  till  it  come,  we  men  are  slaves, 
And  travel  downward  to  the  dust  of  graves. 

Come,  clear  the  way,  then,  clear  the  way : 
Blind  creeds  and  kings  have  had  their  day. 
Break  the  dead  branches  from  the  path : 
Our  hope  is  in  the  aftermath  - 
Our  hope  is  in  heroic  men, 
Star-led  to  build  the  world  again. 
To  this  Event  the  ages  ran . 

Make  way  for  Brotherhood  —  make  way  for  Man, 

6 


Song   of  the    Followers   of  Pan 

Our  bursting  bugles  blow  apart 

The  gates  of  cities  as  we  go ; 
We  bring  the  music  of  the  heart 

From  secret  wells  in  Lillimo'. 

We  break  in  music  on  the  morns  — 
Sing  of  the  flower  to  stirring  roots ; 

Apollo's  cry  is  in  the  horns, 

And  Hermes'  whisper  in  the  flutes. 

We  come  with  laughter  to  the  Earth, 
And  lightly  stir  the  heading  wheat : 

Our  God  is  Poesy  and  Mirth, 

And  loves  the  noise  of  woodland  feet. 

When  dancers  beat  the  air  to  sound, 
After  the  time  of  yellow  sheaves, 

He  stops  to  watch  the  merry  round, 

His  pleased  face  looking  through  the  leaves. 

7 


Little    Brothers   of  the   Ground 

Little  ants  in  leafy  wood, 
Bound  by  gentle  Brotherhood, 
While  ye  gaily  gather  spoil, 
Men  are  ground  by  the  wheel  of  toil ; 
While  ye  follow  Blessed  Fates, 
Men  are  shriveled  up  with  hates; 
Or  they  lie  with  sheeted  Lust, 
And  they  eat  the  bitter  dust. 

Ye  are  fraters  in  your  hall, 
Gay  and  chainless,  great  and  small; 
All  are  toilers  in  the  field, 
8 


Little  Brothers  of  the  Ground 

All  are  sharers  in  the  yield. 
But  we  mortals  plot  and  plan 
How  to  grind  the  fellow-man; 
Glad  to  find  him  in  a  pit, 
If  we  get  some  gain  of  it. 
So  with  us,  the  sons  of  Time, 
Labor  is  a  kind  of  crime, 
For  the  toilers  have  the  least, 
While  the  idlers  lord  the  feast. 
Yes,  our  workers  they  are  bound, 
Pallid  captives  to  the  ground ; 
Jeered  by  traitors,  fooled  by  knaves, 
Till  they  stumble  into  graves. 

How  appears  to  tiny  eyes 
All  this  wisdom  of  the  wise  ? 


Wail   of  the   Wandering   Dead 

Death,  too,  is  a  chimera  and  betrays, 

And  yet  they  promised  we  should  enter  rest; 

Death  is  as  empty  as  the  cup  of  days, 
And  bitter  milk  is  in  her  wintry  breast. 

There  is  no  worth  in  any  world  to  come, 
Nor  any  in  the  world  we  left  behind; 

And  what  remains  of  all  our  masterdom?  — 
Only  a  cry  out  of  the  crumbling  mind. 

We  played  all  comers  at  the  old  Gray  Inn, 
But  played  the  King  of  Players  to  our  cost. 


10 


IF  ail  of  the  Meandering  Dead 

We  played  Him  fair  and  had  no  chance  to  win : 
The  dice  of  God  were  loaded  and  we  lost. 

We  wander,  wander,  and  the  nights  come  down 
With  starless  darkness  and  the  rush  of  rains ; 

We  drift  as  phantoms  by  the  songless  town, 
We  drift  as  litter  on  the  windy  lanes. 

Hope  is  the  fading  vision  of  the  heart, 

A  mocking  spirit  throwing  up  wild  hands. 

She  led  us  on  with  music  at  the  start, 

To  leave  us  at  dead  fountains  in  the  sands. 

Now  all  our  days  are  but  a  cry  for  sleep, 
For  we  are  weary  of  the  petty  strife. 

Is  there  not  somewhere  in  the  endless  deep 
A  place  where  we  can  lose  the  feel  of  life  ? 

Where  we  can  be  as  senseless  as  the  dust 

The  night  wind  blows  about  a  dried-up  well  ? 

Where  there  is  no  more  labor,  no  more  lust, 
Nor  any  flesh  to  feel  the  Tooth  of  Hell  ? 

Our  feet  are  ever  sliding,  and  we  seem 
As  old  and  weary  as  the  pyramids. 

1 1 


IF  ail  of  the  Meandering  Dead 

Come,  God  of  Ages,  and  dispel  the  dream, 

Fold  the  worn  hands  and  close  the  sinking  lids. 

There  is  no  new  road  for  the  dead  to  take : 

Wild  hearts  are  we  among  the  worlds  astray  — 

Wild  hearts  are  we  that  cannot  wholly  break, 
But  linger  on  though  life  has  gone  away. 

We  are  the  sons  of  Misery  and  Eld : 

Come,  tender  Death,  with  all  your  hushing 
wings, 

And  let  our  broken  spirits  be  dispelled — 
Let  dead  men  sink  into  the  dusk  of  things. 


12 


A    Prayer 

Teach  me,  Father,  how  to  go 
Softly  as  the  grasses  grow ; 
Hush  my  soul  to  meet  the  shock 
Of  the  wild  world  as  a  rock; 
But  my  spirit,  propt  with  power, 
Make  as  simple  as  a  flower. 
Let  the  dry  heart  fill  its  cup, 
Like  a  poppy  looking  up; 
Let  life  lightly  wear  her  crown, 
Like  a  poppy  looking  down, 
When  its  heart  is  filled  with  dew, 
And  its  life  begins  anew. 


A  Prayer 

Teach  me,  Father,  how  to  be 
Kind  and  patient  as  a  tree. 
Joyfully  the  crickets  croon 
Under  shady  oak  at  noon; 
Beetle,  on  his  mission  bent, 
Tarries  in  that  cooling  tent. 
Let  me,  also,  cheer  a  spot, 
Hidden  field  or  garden  grot  — 
Place  where  passing  souls  can  rest 
On  the  way  and  be  their  best. 


The    Poet 

His  home  is  in  the  heights:   to  him 
Men  wage  a  battle  weird  and  dim, 
Life  is  a  mission  stern  as  fate, 
And  Song  a  dread  apostolate. 
The  toils  of  prophecy  are  his, 
To  hail  the  coming  centuries — 
To  ease  the  steps  and  lift  the  load 
Of  souls  that  falter  on  the  road. 
The  perilous  music  that  he  hears 
Falls  from  the  vortice  of  the  spheres. 


The  Poet 

He  presses  on  before  the  race, 
And  sings  out  of  a  silent  place. 
Like  faint  notes  of  a  forest  bird 
On  heights  afar  that  voice  is  heard; 
And  the  dim  path  he  breaks  to-day 
Will  some  time  be  a  trodden  way. 

But  when  the  race  comes  toiling  on 
That  voice  of  wonder  will  be  gone  — 
Be  heard  on  higher  peaks  afar, 
Moved  upward  with  the  morning  star. 

O  men  of  earth,  that  wandering  voice 
Still  goes  the  upward  way:  rejoice! 


16 


The   Whirlwind    Road 

The  Muses  wrapped  in  mysteries  of  light 

Came  in  a  rush  of  music  on  the  night; 

And  I  was  lifted  wildly  on  quick  wings, 

And  borne  away  into  the  deep  of  things. 

The  dead  doors  of  my  being  broke  apart ; 

A  wind  of  rapture  blew  across  the  heart ; 

The  inward  song  of  worlds  rang  still  and  clear ; 

1  felt  the  Mystery  the  Muses  fear; 

Yet  they  went  swiftening  on  the  ways  untrod, 

And  hurled  me  breathless  at  the  feet  of  God. 

I  felt  faint  touches  of  the  Final  Truth  — 

Moments  of  trembling  love,  moments  of  youth. 

A  vision  swept  away  the  human  wall; 

Slowly  I  saw  the  meaning  of  it  all- 

Meaning  of  life  and  time  and  death  and  birth, 

But  can  not  tell  it  to  the  men  of  Earth. 

I  only  point  the  way,  and  they  must  go 

The  whirlwind  road  of  song  if  they  would  know, 

17 


The    Desire   of  Nations 


And  the  government  shall  be  upon  His  shoulder :  and  His  name  shall 
be  called  Wonderful,  Counsellor,  The  mighty  God,  The  everlasting 
Father,  The  Prince  of  Peace. —  Isaiah. 


Earth  will  go  back  to  her  lost  youth, 

And  life  grow  deep  and  wonderful  as  truth, 

When  the  wise  King  out  of  the  nearing  Heaven 

comes 

To  break  the  spell  of  long  millenniums  — 
To  build  with  song  again 
The  broken  hope  of  men  - 
To  hush  and  heroize  the  world, 
Beneath  the  flag  of  Brotherhood  unfurled. 
And  He  will  come  some  day : 
Already  is  His  star  upon  the  way  ! 
He  comes,  O  world,  He  comes ! 
But  not  with  bugle-cry  nor  roll  of  doubling  drums. 

18 


The  Desire  of  Nations 

Nay,  for  He  comes  to  loosen  and  unbind, 
To  build  the  lofty  purpose  in  the  mind, 
To  stir  the  heart's  deep  chord. 
No  rude  horns  parleying,  no  shock  of  shields; 
Nor  as  of  old  the  glory  of  the  Lord 
To  half-awakened  shepherds  in  the  fields, 
Looking  with  foolish  faces  on  the  rush 
Of  the  Great  Splendor,  when  the  pulsing  hush 
Came  o'er  the  hills,  came  o'er  the  heavens  afar 
Where  on  their  cliff  of  stars  the  watching  seraphs 
are. 

Nor  as  of  old  when  first  the  Strong  One  trod 
The  Power  of  sepulchers  —  our  Risen  God! 
When  on  that  deathless  morning  in  the  dark, 
He  quit  the  Garden  of  the  Sepulcher, 
Setting  the  oleander  boughs  astir, 
And  pausing  at  the  gate  with  backward  hark- 
Nay,  nor  as  when  the  Hero-King  of  Heaven 
Came  with  upbraiding  to  His  faint  Eleven, . 
And  found  the  world-way  to  His  bright  feet 

barred, 
And    hopeless    then    because    men's    hearts    were 

hard. 

19 


The  Desire  of  Nations 

Nor  will  He  come  like  carnal  kings  of  old, 
With  pomp  of  pilfered  gold  ; 
Nor  like  the  Pharisees  with  pride  of  prayer ; 
.Nor  as  the  stumbling  foolish  stewards  dream 
In  tedious  argument  and  milkless  creed, 
But  in  the  passion  of  the  heart-warm  deed 
Will  come  the  Man  Supreme. 
Yea,  for  He  comes  to  lift  the  Public  Care  — 
To  build  on  Earth  the  Vision  hung  in  air. 
This  is  the  one  fulfilment  of  His  Law  — 
The  one  Fact  in  the  mockeries  that  seem. 
This  is  the  Vision  that  the  prophets  saw  — 
The  Comrade  Kingdom  builded  in  their  dream. 

No,  not  as  in  that  elder  day 

Comes  now  the  King  upon  the  human  way. 

He  comes  with  power :   His  white  unfearing  face 

Shines  through  the  Social  Passion  of  the  race. 

He  comes  to  frame  the  freedom  of  the  Law, 

To  touch  these  men  of  Earth 

With  a  feeling  of  life's  oneness  and  its  worth, 

A  feeling  of  its  mystery  and  awe. 

And  when  He  comes  into  the  world  gone  wrong, 
He  will  rebuild  her  beauty  with  a  song. 

20 


The  Desire  of  Nations 

To  every  heart  He  will  its  own  dream  be: 

One  moon  has  many  phantoms  in  the  sea. 

Out  of  the  North  the  norns  will  cry  to  men  : 

"  Balder  the  Beautiful  has  come  again  !  " 

The  flutes  of  Greece  will  whisper  from  the  dead  : 

"  Apollo  has  unveiled  his  sunbright  head  ! " 

The  stones  of  Thebes  and  Memphis  will  find  voice; 

"  Osiris  comes  :    O  tribes  of  Time,  rejoice  !  " 

And  social  architects  who  build  the  State, 

Serving  the  Dream  at  citadel  and  gate, 

Will  hail  Him  coming  through  the  labor-hum. 

And  glad  quick  cries  will  go  from  man  to  man  : 

"  Lo,  He  has  come,  our  Christ  the  Artisan  — 

The  King  who  loved  the  lilies,  He  has  come  !  " 

He  will  arrive,  our  Counselor  and  Chief. 
And  with  bleak  faces  lighted  up  will  come 
The  earth-worn  mothers  from  their  martyrdom, 
To  tell  Him  of  their  grief. 
And  glad  girls  caroling  from  field  and  town 
Will  go  to  meet  Him  with  the  labor-crown, 
The  new  crown  woven  of  the  heading  wheat. 
And  men  will  sit  down  at  His  sacred  feet ; 
And  He  will  say  —  the  King  — 
"  Come,  let  us  live  the  poetry  we  sing  !  " 

21 


The  Desire  of  Nations 

And  these,  His  burning  words,  will  break  the  ban- 
Words  that  will  grow  to  be, 
On  continent,  on  sea, 
The  rallying  cry  of  man. 

He  comes  to  make  the  long  injustice  right  — 
Comes  to  push  back  the  shadow  of  the  night, 
The  gray  Tradition  full  of  flint  and  flaw  — 
Comes  to  wipe  out  the  insults  to  the  soul, 
The  insults  of  the  Few  against  the  Whole, 
The  insults  they  make  righteous  with  a  law. 

Yea,  He  will  bear  the  Safety  of  the  State, 
For  in  his  still  and  rhythmic  steps  will  be 
The  power  and  music  of  Alcyone, 
Who  holds  the  swift  heavens  in  their  starry  fate. 
Yea,  He  will  lay  on  souls  the  power  of  peace, 
And  send  on  kingdoms  torn  the  sense  of  Home  — 
More  than  the  fire  of  Joy  that  burned  on  Greece, 
More  than  the  light  of  Law  that  rose  on  Rome. 


22 


The  Elf  Child 

I  am  a  child  of  the  reef  and  the  blowing  spray, 
And  all  my  heart  goes  wildly  to  the  sea. 
I  am  a  changeling :   can  you  follow  me 

Through  hill  and  hollow  on  the  wind's  dim  way  ? 

Yes,  at  the  break  of  a  tempestuous  day 

They  bore  me  to  the  land  through  starless  storm 
And  laid  me  in  the  pillow  sweetly  warm 

And  broken  by  the  first  one's  little  stay. 

The  elf  kings  found  me  on  an  ocean  reef, 
A  lyric  child  of  mystery  and  grief. 

Then  need  I  tell  you  why  the  trembling  start - 
Why  in  my  song  the  sound  of  ocean  dwells  - 
Why  the  quick  gladness  when  the  billow  swells, 

As  though  remembered  voices  called  the  heart? 


23 


The  Goblin  Laugh 

When  I  behold  how  men  and  women  grind 
And  grovel  for  some  place  of  pomp  or  power, 
To  shine  and  circle  through  a  crumbling  hour, 

Forgetting  the  large  mansions  of  the  mind, 

That  are  the  rest  and  shelter  of  mankind  ; 

And  when  I  see  them  come  with  wearied  brains 
Pallid  and  powerless  to  enjoy  their  gains, 

I  seem  to  hear  a  goblin  laugh  unwind. 

And  then  a  memory  sends  upon  its  billow 
Thoughts  of  a  singer  wise  enough  to  play, 
Who  took  life  as  a  lightsome  holiday  : 
Oft  have  I  seen  him  make  his  arm  a  pillow, 
Drink  from  his  hand,  and  with  a  pipe  of  willow 
Blow  a  wild  music  down  a  woodland  way. 


Poetry 

She  comes  like  the  hush  and  beauty  of  the  night, 

And  sees  too  deep  for  laughter; 
Her  touch  is  a  vibration  and  a  light 

From  worlds  before  and  after. 


25 


A   Meeting 

Softly  she  came  one  twilight  from  the  dead, 
And  in  the  passionate  silence  of  her  look 
Was  more  than  man  has  writ  in  any  book : 

And  now  my  thoughts  are  restless,  and  a  dread 

Calls  them  to  the  Dim  Land  discomforted; 
For  down  the  leafy  ways  her  white  feet  took, 
Lightly  the  newly  broken  roses  shook  — 

Was  it  the  wind  disturbed  each  rosy  head  ? 

God!   was  it  joy  or  sorrow  in  her  face  — 

That  quiet  face?     Had  it  grown  old  or  young!5 
Was  it  sweet  memory  or  sad  that  stung 

Her  voiceless  soul  to  wander  from  its  place  ? 

What  do  the  dead  find  in  the  Silence  —  grace  ? 
Or  endless  grief  for  which  there  is  no  tongue  ? 


26 


Infinite    Depths 

The  little  pool,  in  street  or  field  apart, 

Glasses  the  deep  heavens  and  the  rushing  storm ; 

And  into  the  silent  depths  of  every  heart, 
The  Eternal  throws  its  awful  shadow-form. 


27 


A    Leaf  from   the    Devil's  Jest-Book 

Beside  the  sewing-table  chained  and  bent, 

They  stitch  for  the  lady,  tyrannous  and  proud  — 
For  her  a  wedding-gown,  for  them  a  shroud; 
They  stitch  and  stitch,  but  never  mend  the  rent 
Torn  in  life's  golden  curtains.      Glad  Youth  went, 
And  left  them  alone  with  Time;   and  now  if 

bowed 

With  burdens  they  should  sob  and  cry  aloud, — 
Wondering,  the  rich  would  look  from  their 
content. 

28 


A  Leaf  from  the  Devil*  s  Jest-Book 

And  so  this  glimmering  life  at  last  recedes 
In  unknown,  endless  depths  beyond  recall ; 

And  what's  the  worth  of  all  our  ancient  creeds, 
If  here  at  the  end  of  ages  this  is  all — 
A  white  face  floating  in  the  whirling  ball, 

A  dead  face  plashing  in  the  river  reeds? 


29 


The    Paymaster 

There  is  a  sacred  Something  on -all  ways  — 

Something  that  watches  through  the  Universe; 

One  that  remembers,  reckons  and  repays, 
Giving  us  love  for  love,  and  curse  for  curse. 


3° 


The  Last  Furrow 

The  Spirit  of  Earth,  with  still  restoring  hands, 
'Mid  ruin  moves,  in  glimmering  chasm  gropes, 
And  mosses  mantle  and  the  bright  flower  opes; 

But  Death  the  Ploughman  wanders  in  all  lands, 

And  to  the  last  of  Earth  his  furrow  stands. 
The  grave  is  never  hidden  ;  fearful  hopes 
Follow  the  dead  upon  the  fading  slopes, 

And  there  wild  memories  meet  upon  the  sands. 

When  willows  fling  their  banners  to  the  plain, 
When  rumor  of  winds  and  sound  of  sudden 
showers 

31 


The  Last  Furrow 

Disturb  the  dream  of  winter — all  in  vain 
The  grasses  hurry  to  the  graves,  the  flowers 
Toss  their  wild  torches  on  their  windy  towers ; 

Yet  are  the  bleak  graves  lonely  in  the  rain. 


32 


In  the  Storm 

I  huddled  close  against  the  mighty  cliff. 
A  sense  of  safety  and  of  brotherhood 
Broke  on  the  heart  :   the  shelter  of  a  rock 
Is  sweeter  than  the  roofs  of  all  the  world. 


33 


After  Reading  Shakspere 

Blithe  Fancy  lightly  builds  with  airy  hands 
Or  on  the  edges  of  the  darkness  peers, 
Breathless  and  frightened  at  the  Voice  she  hears 

Imagination  (lo  !  the  sky  expands) 

Travels  the  blue  arch  and  Cimmerian  sands, — 
Homeless  on  earth,  the  pilgrim  of  the  spheres, 
The  rush  of  light  before  the  hurrying  years, 

The  Voice  that  cries  in  unfamiliar  lands. 


Men  weigh  the  moons  that  flood  with  eerie  light 
The  dusky  vales  of  Saturn  —  wood  and  stream  ; 

34 


After  Reading  Shakspere 

* 

But  who  shall  follow  on  the  awful  sweep 
Of  Neptune  through  the  dim  and  dreadful  deep  ? 
Onward  he  wanders  in  the  unknown  night, 
And  we  are  shadows  moving  in  a  dream. 


35 


The    Hidden   Valley 

I  stray  with  Ariel  and  Caliban : 

I  know  the  hill  of  windy  pines  —  I  know 
Where  the  jay's  nest  swings  in  the  wild  gorge 
below : 

Lightly  I  climb  where  fallen  cedars  span 

Bright  rivers  —  climb  to  a  valley  under  ban, 

Where  west  winds  set  a  thousand  bells  ablow  — 
An  eerie  valley  where  in  the  morning  glow 

I  hear  the  music  of  the  pipes  of  Pan. 

Mysterious  horns  blow  by  on  the  still  air  — 
A  satyr  steps  —  a  wood-god's  dewy  notes 
Come  faintly  from  a  vale  of  tossing  oats  — 

But,  ho !   what  white  thing  in  the  canyon  crossed  ? 

Gods !   I  shall  come  on  Dian  unaware, 

Look  on  her  fearful  beauty  and  be  lost. 


The  Poets 

Some  cry  of  Sappho's  lyre,  of  Saadi's  flute, 

Comes  back  across  the  waste  of  mortal  things  : 

Men  strive  and  die  to  reach  the  Dead  Sea  fruit  - 
Only  the  poets  find  immortal  springs. 


37 


Love's  Vigil 

Love  will  outwatch  the  stars,  and  light  the  skies 
When  the  last  star  falls,  and  the  silent  dark 

devours ; 
God's  warrior,  he  will  watch  the  allotted  hours, 

And  conquer  with  the  look  of  his  sad  eyes  ; 

He  shakes  the  kingdom  of  darkness  with  his  sighs, 
His  quiet  sighs,  while  all  the  Infernal  Powers 
Tremble  and  pale  upon  their  central  towers, 

Lest,  haply,  his  bright  universe  arise. 

All  will  be  well  if  he  have  strength  to  wait, 
Till  his  lost  Pleiad,  white  and  silver-shod, 

38 


Love's  Vigil 

Regains  her  place  to  make  the  perfect  Seven  ; 
Then  all  the  worlds  will  know  that  Love  is  Fate- 
That  somehow  he  is  greater  even  than  Heaven  - 
That  in  the  Cosmic  Council  he  is  God. 


39 


Two  at  a  Fireside 

t 

I  built  a  chimney  for  a  comrade  old, 

I  did  the  service  not  for  hope  or  hire  — 

And  then  I  traveled  on  in  winter's  cold, 
Yet  all  the  day  I  glowed  before  the  fire. 


4° 


The   Butterfly 

O  winged  brother  on  the  harebell,  stay  — 
Was  God's  hand  very  pitiful,  the  hand 
That  wrought  thy  beauty  at  a  dream's  demand? 

Yea,  knowing  I  love  so  well  the  flowery  way, 

He  did  not  fling  me  to  the  world  astray  — 
He  did  not  drop  me  to  the  weary  sand, 
But  bore  me  gently  to  a  leafy  land: 

Tinting  my  wings,  He  gave  me  to  the  day. 

Oh,  chide  no  more  my  doubting,  my  despair! 

I  will  go  back  now  to  the  world  of  men. 
Farewell,  I  leave  thee  to  the  world  of  air, 

Yet  thou  hast  girded  up  my  heart  again  ; 
For  He  that  framed  the  impenetrable  plan, 
And  keeps  His  word  with  thee,  will  keep  with 
man. 


To   William   Watson 

After  reading  "  The  Purple  East." 

That  hour  you  put  the  wreath  of  England  by 
To  shake  her  guilty  heart  with  song  sublime, 

The  mighty  Muse  that  watches  from  the  sky 
Laid  on  your  head  the  larger  wreath  of  Time. 


42 


Keats   A-Dying 

Often  of  that  Last  Hour  I  lie  and  think; 

I  see  thee,  Keats,  nearing  the  Deathway  dim  — 
See  Severn  in  his  noiseless  hurry,  him 

Who  leaned  above  thee  fading  on  the  brink. 

What  is  that  wild  light  through  the  window 
chink  ? 

Is  it  the  burning  feet  of  cherubim  ? 

Or  is  it  the  white  moon  on  western  rim  — 
Saint  Agnes'  moon  beginning  now  to  sink? 

How  did  Death  come  —  with  sounds  of  water- 
stir? 

With  forms  of  beauty  breaking  at  the  lips  ? 
With  field  pipes  and  the  scent  of  blowing  fir  ? 

Or  came  it  hurrying  like  a  last  eclipse, 
Sweeping  the  world  away  like  gossamer, 

Blotting  the  moon,  the  mountains,  and  the  ships? 

43 


Man 

Out  of  the  deep  and  endless  universe 

There  came  a  greater  Mystery,  a  Shape, 

A  Something  sad,  inscrutable,  august  — 

One  to  confront  the  worlds  and  question  them, 


44 


The   Cricket 

The  twilight  is  the  morning  of  his  day, 

While  sleep  drops  seaward  from  the  fading 
shore, 

With  purpling  sail  and  dip  of  silver  oar, 
He  cheers  the  shadowed  time  with  roundelay, 
Until  the  dark  east  softens  into  gray. 

Now  as  the  noisy  hours  are  coming  —  hark ! 

His  song  dies  gently — it  is  growing  dark - 
His  night,  with  its  one  star,  is  on  the  way  ! 

Faintly  the  light  breaks  over  the  blowing  oats  - 
Sleep,  little  brother,  sleep  :    I  am  astir. 
We  worship  Song,  and  servants  are  of  her - 

I  in  the  bright  hours,  thou  in  shadow-time  ; 

Lead  thou  the  starlit  night  with  merry  notes, 

And  I  will  lead  the  clamoring  day  with  rhyme. 


45 


In  High  Sierras 

There  at  a  certain  hour  of  the  deep  night, 
A  gray  cliff  with  a  demon  face  comes  up, 
Wrinkled  and  old,  behind  the  peaks,  and  with 
An  anxious  look  peers  at  the  Zodiac. 


The   Wharf  of  Dreams 

Strange  wares  are  handled  on  the  wharves  of  sleep : 
Shadows  of  shadows  pass,  and  many  a  light 
Flashes  a  signal  fire  across  the  night ; 

Barges  depart  whose  voiceless  steersmen  keep 

Their  way  without  a  star  upon  the  deep; 

And  from  lost  ships,  homing  with  ghostly  crews, 
Come  cries  of  incommunicable  news, 

While  cargoes  pile  the  piers,  a  moon-white  heap- 

Budgets  of  dream-dust,  merchandise  of  song, 
Wreckage  of  hope  and  packs  of  ancient  wrong, 

47 


The  Wharf  of  Dreams 

Nepenthes  gathered  from  a  secret  strand, 
Fardels  of  heartache,  burdens  of  old  sins, 
Luggage  sent  down  from  dim  ancestral  inns, 

And  bales  of  fantasy  from  No-Man's  Land. 


To    Louise   Michel 

I  cannot  take  your  road,  Louise  Michel, 
Priestess  of  Pity  and  of  Vengeance  —  no: 
Down  that  amorphous  gulf  I  cannot  go  — 

That  gulf  of  Anarchy  whose  pit  is  Hell. 

Yet,  sister,  though  my  first  word  is  farewell, 
Remember  that  I  know  your  hidden  woe; 
Have  felt  the  grief  that  rends  you  blow  on 
blow; 

Have  knelt  beside  you  in  the  murky  cell. 

You  never  followed  hate  (let  this  atone) 

Nor  knew  the  wrongs  of  others  from  your  own 

Wild  was  the  road,  but  Love  has  always  led, 
So  I  am  silent  where  I  cannot  praise ; 
And  here  now  at  the  parting  of  the  ways, 

I  lay  a  still  hand  lightly  on  your  head. 


49 


Shepherd  Boy  and  Nereid 

Ah,  once  of  old  in  some  forgotten  tongue, 
Forgotten  land,  I  was  a  shepherd  boy, 
And  you  a  Nereid,  a  winged  joy : 

On  through  the  dawn-bright  peaks  our  bodies 
swung 

And  flower-soft  lyrics  by  immortals  sung 
Fell  from  their  unseen  pinnacles  in  air : 
God  looked  from  Heaven  that  hour,  for  you 
were  fair, 

And  I  a  poet,  and  the  star  was  young. 

5° 


Shepherd  Boy  and  Nereid 

You'd  heard  my  woodland  pipe  and  left  the  sea  - 
Your  hair  blown  gold  and  all  your  body  white  — 

Had  left  the  ocean-girls  to  follow  me. 

We  joined  the  hill-nymphs  in  their  joyous  flight, 

And  you  laughed  lightly  to  the  sea,  and  sent 

Quick  glances  flashing  through  me  as  I  went. 


51 


A  Song  at  the  Start 

Oh,  down  the  quick  river  our  galley  is  going, 
With  a  sound  in  the  cordage,  a  beam  on  the 

sail : 

The  wind  of  the  canyon  our  loose  hair  is  blowing, 
And  the  clouds  of  the  morning  are  glad  of  the 
gale. 

Around  the  swift  prow  little  billows  are  breaking, 
And  flinging  their  foam  in  a  glory  of  light ; 

Now  the  shade  of  a  rock  on  the  river  is  shaking, 
And  a  wave  leaps  high  up  growing  suddenly 
white. 

52 


A  Song  at  the  Start 

The  weight  of  the  whole  world  is  light  as  a 
feather, 

And  the  peaks  rise  in  silence  and  westerly  flee: 
Oh,  the  world  and  the  poet  are  singing  together, 

And  from  the  far  cliff  comes  a  sound  of  the  sea, 


53 


My  Comrade 

I  never  build  a  song  by  night  or  day, 
Of  breaking  ocean  or  of  blowing  whin, 

But  in  some  wondrous  unexpected  way, 

Like  light  upon  a  road,  my  Love  comes  in, 

And  when  I  go  at  night  upon  the  hill, 
My  heart  is  lifted  on  mysterious  wings : 

My  Love  is  there  to  strengthen  and  to  still, 
For  she  can  take  away  the  dread  of  things. 


54 


A   Lyric  of  the   Dawn 

Alone  I  list 

In  the  leafy  tryst; 

Silent  the  woodlands  in  their  starry  sleep  — 
Silent  the  phantom  wood  in  waters  deep: 
No  footfall  of  a  wind  along  the  pass 
Startles  a  harebell  —  stirs  a  blade  of  grass. 

Yonder  the  wandering  weeds, 
Enchanted  in  the  light, 
Stand  in  the  gusty  hollows,  still  and  white; 

Yonder  are  plumy  reeds, 
Dusking  the  border  of  the  clear  lagoon  ; 

Far  off  the  silver  clifts 
Hang  in  ethereal  light  below  the  moon  ; 

Far  off  the  ocean  lifts, 
Tossing  its  billows  in  the  misty  beam, 
And  shore-lines  whiten,  silent  as  a  dream : 

55 


A  Lyric  of  the  Dawn 

I  hark  for  the  bird,  and  all  the  hushed  hills  harken : 
This  is  the  valley  :   here  the  branches  darken 
The  silver-lighted  stream. 

Hark- 

That  rapture  in  the  leafy  dark ! 
Who  is  it  shouts  upon  the  bough  aswing, 
Waking  the  upland  and  the  valley  under? 
What  carols,  like  the  blazon  of  a  king, 

Fill  all  the  dawn  with  wonder? 
Oh,  hush, 

It  is  the  thrush, 

In  the  deep  and  woody  glen ! 
Ah,  thus  the  gladness  of  the  gods  was  sung, 

When  the  old  Earth  was  young; 

That  rapture  rang, 

When  the  first  morning  on  the  mountains  sprang: 
And  now  he  shouts,  and  the  world  is  young  again ! 
Carol,  my  king, 

On  your  bough  aswing ! 
Thou  art  not  of  these  evil  days  — 
Thou  art  a  voice  of  the  world's  lost  youth: 
Oh,  tell  me  what  is  duty  —  what  is  truth  — 
How  to  find  God  upon  these  hungry  ways ; 

Tell  of  the  golden  prime,  v 

56 


A  Lyric  of  the  Dawn 

When  men  beheld  swift  deities  descend, 
Before  the  race  was  left  alone  with  Time, 
Homesick  on  Earth,  and  homeless  to  the  end, 
When  bird  and  beast  could  make  a  man  their 
friend ; 

Before  great  Pan  was  dead, 

Before  the  naiads  fled  ; 
When  maidens  white  with  dark  eyes  shy  and 

bold, 
With  peals  of  laughter  on  the  peaks  of  gold, 

Startled  the  still  dawn- 

Shone  in  upon  the  mountains  and  were  gone, 
Their  voices  fading  silverly  in  depths  of  forests  old. 
Sing  of  the  wonders  of  their  woodland  ways, 
Before  the  weird  earth-hunger  of  these  days, 

When  there  was  rippling  mirth, 

When  justice  was  on  Earth, 
And  light  and  grandeur  of  the  Golden  Age  ; 

When  never  a  heart  was  sad, 

When  all  from  king  to  herdsman  had 

A  penny  for  a  wage. 
^  h,  that  old  time  has  faded  to  a  dream  - 

ne  moon's  fair  face  is  broken  in  the  stream ; 
Yet  shout  and  carol  on,  O  bird,  and  let 
The  exiled  race  not  utterly  forget ; 

57 


A  Lyric  of  the  Dawn 

Publish  thy  revelation  on  the  lawns  — 
Sing  ever  in  the  dark  ethereal  dawns; 

Sometime,  in  some  sweet  year, 
These  stormy  souls,  these  men  of  Earth  may  hear. 

But  hark  again, 

From  the  secret  glen, 
That  voice  of  rapture  and  ethereal  youth 

Now  laden  with  despair. 

Forbear,  O  bird,  forbear : 
Is  life  not  terrible  enough,  forsooth  ? 

Cease,  cease  the  mystic  song  - 
No  more,  no  more,  the  passion  and  the  pain  : 
It  wakes  my  life  to  fret  against  the  chain  ; 
It  makes  me  think  of  all  the  aged  wrong— 
Of  joy  and  the  end  of  joy  and  the  end  of  all- 
Of  souls  on  Earth,  and  souls  beyond  recall. 

Ah,  ah,  that  voice  again  ! 
It  makes  me  think  of  all  these  restless  men, 
Called  into  time  —  their  progress  and  their  goal; 

And  now,  oh  now,  it  sends  into  my  soul 
Dreams  of  a  love  that  might  have  been  for  me- 
That  might  have  been — and  now  can  never  be. 

Tell  me  no  more  of  these — 

Tell  me  of  tranced  trees 

58 


A  Lyric  of  the  Dawn 

(The  ghosts,  the  memories,  in  pity  spare)  ; 
Show  me  the  leafy  home  of  the  wild  bees ; 
Show  me  the  snowy  summits  dim  in  air; 

Tell  me  of  things  afar 
In  valleys  silent  under  moon  and  star : 

Dim  hollows  hushed  with  night, 
The  lofty  cedars  misty  in  the  light, 

Wild  clusters  of  the  vine, 

Wild  odors  of  the  pine, 
The  eagle's  eyrie  lifted  to  the  moon- 
High  places  where  on  quiet  afternoon 
A  shadow  swiftens  by,  a  thrilling  scream 
Startles  the  cliff,  and  dies  across  the  woodland  to  a 
dream. 

Ha,  now 

He  springs  from  the  bough, 

It  flickers  —  he  is  lost  ! 

Out  of  the  copse  he  sprang; 
This  is  the  floating  briar  where  he  tossed  : 
The  leaves  are  yet  atremble  where  he  sang. 

Here  a  long  vista  opens  —  look  ! 

This  is  the  way  he  took, 
Through  the  pale  poplars  by  the  pond : 
Hark!   he  is  shouting  in  the  field  beyond. 

59 


A  Lyric  of  the  Dawn 

Ho,  there  he  goes 

Through  the  alder  close ! 
He  leaves  me  here  behind  him  in  his  flight, 
And  yet  my  heart  goes  with  him  out  of  sight ! 

What  whispered  spell 
Of  Faery  calls  me  on  from  dell  to  dell  ? 
I  hear  the  voice  —  it  wanders  in  a  dream - 
Now  in  the  grove,  now  on  the  hill,  now  on  the 
fading  stream. 

Lead  on  —  you  know  the  way  — 

Lead  on  to  Arcady, 

O'er  fields  asleep ;   by  river  bank  abrim ; 
Down  leafy  ways,  dewy  and  cool  and  dim; 
By  dripping  rocks,  dark  dwellings  of  the  gnome, 
Where  hurrying  waters  dash  their  crests  to  foam. 

I  follow  where  you  lead, 

Down  winding  paths,  across  the  flowery  mead, 
Down  silent  hollows  where  the  woodbine  blows, 
Up  water-courses  scented  by  the  rose. 

I  follow  the  wandering  voice— 

I  follow,  I  rejoice, 
I  fade  away  into  the  Age  of  Gold- 
We  two  together  lost  in  forest  old. — 

60 


A  Lyric  of  the  Dawn 

O  ferny  and  thymy  paths,  O  fields  of  Aidenn, 
Canyons  and  cliffs  by  mortal  feet  untrod ! 
O  souls  that  are  weary  and  are  heavy  laden, 
Here  is  the  peace  of  God ! 

Lo  !   now  the  clamoring  hours  are  on  the  way : 
Faintly  the  pine  tops  redden  in  the  ray ; 
From  vale  to  vale  fleet-footed  rumors  run, 
With  sudden  apprehension  of  the  sun ; 

A  light  wind  stirs 
The  filmy  tops  of  delicate  dim  firs, 

And  on  the  river  border  blows, 
Breaking  the  shy  bud  softly  to  a  rose. 

Sing  out,  O  throstle,  sing: 

I  follow  on,  my  king  : 
Lead  me  forever  through  the  crimson  dawn- 

Till  the  world  ends,  lead  me  on  ! 
Ho  there!   he  shouts  again  —  he  sways  —  and  now, 

Upspringing  from  the  bough, 
Flashing  a  glint  of  dew  upon  the  ground, 

Without  a  sound 
He  drops  into  a  valley  and  is  gone  ! 


61 


Joy   of  the    Morning 

I  hear  you,  little  bird, 
Shouting  aswing  above  the  broken  wall. 
Shout  louder  yet :   no  song  can  tell  it  all. 
Sing  to  my  soul  in  the  deep  still  wood  : 
'Tis  wonderful  beyond  the  wildest  word : 
I'd  tell  it,  too,  if  I  could. 

Oft  when  the  white,  still  dawn 

Lifted  the  skies  and  pushed  the  hills  apart, 

I've  felt  it  like  a  glory  in  my  heart 

(The  world's  mysterious  stir)  - 

But  had  no  throat  like  yours,  my  bird, 

Nor  such  a  listener. 


62 


Youth   and   Time 

Once,  I  remember,  the  world  was  young  ; 
The  rills  rejoiced  with  a  silver  tongue  ; 
The  field-lark  sat  in  the  wheat  and  sang; 
The  thrush's  shout  in  the  woodland  rang  ; 
The  cliffs  and  the  perilous  sands  afar 
Were  softened  to  mist  by  the  morning  star; 
For  Youth  was  with  me  (I  know  it  now!), 
And  a  light  shone  out  from  his  wreathed  brow. 
He  turned  the  fields  to  enchanted  ground, 
He  touched  the  rains  with  a  dreamy  sound. 

But  alas,  he  vanished,  and  Time  appeared, 
The  Spirit  of  Ages,  old  and  weird. 
He  crushed  and  scattered  my  beamy  wings; 
He  dragged  me  forth  from  the  court  of  kings  ; 
He  gave  me  doubt  and  a  bloom  of  beard, 
This  Spirit  of  Ages,  old  and  weird. 

63 


Youth  and  Time 

The  wonder  went  from  the  field  of  corn, 
The  glory  died  on  the  craggy  horn  ; 
And  suddenly  all  was  strange  and  gray, 
And  the  rocks  came  out  on  the  trodden  way. 

I  hear  no  more  the  wild  thrush  sing : 
He  is  silent  now  on  the  peach  aswing. 
Something  is  gone  from  the  house  of  mirth  — 
Something  is  gone  from  the  hills  of  Earth. 
Time  hurries  me  on  with  a  wizard  hand  ; 
He  turns  the  Earth  to  a  homeless  land  ; 
He  stays  my  life  with  a  stingy  breath, 
And  darkens  its  depths  with  foreknowledge  of 

death  ; 

Calls  memories  back  on  their  path  apace  ; 
Sends  desperate  thoughts  to  the  soul's  dim  place. 

Time  murders  our  youth  with  his  sorrow  and 

sin, 
And  pushes  us  on  to  the  windowless  inn. 


A  Satyr  Song 

I  know  by  the  stir  of  the  branches 

The  way  she  went ; 
And  at  times  I  can  see  where  a  stem 

Of  the  grass  is  bent. 
She's  the  secret  and  light  of  my  life, 

She  allures  to  elude  ; 
But  I  follow  the  spell  of  her  beauty, 

Whatever  the  mood. 

I  have  followed  all  night  in  the  hills, 

And  my  breath  is  deep, 
But  she  flies  on  before  like  a  voice 

In  the  vale  of  sleep. 
I  follow  the  print  of  her  feet 

In  the  wild  river  bed, 
And  lo,  she  calls  gleefully  down 

From  a  cliff  overhead. 

65 


A  Cry  in  the  Night 

Wail,  wail,  wail, 

For  the  fleering  world  goes  down: 
Into  the  song  of  the  poet  pale 

Mixes  the  laugh  of  the  clown. 

Grim,  grim,  grim, 

Is  the  road  we  go  to  the  dead  ; 
Yet  we  must  on,  for  a  Something  dim 

Pushes  the  soul  ahead. 

Where,  where,  where, 

Through  the  dust  and  shadow  of  things, 
Will  the  fleeing  Fates  with  their  wild  manes 
bear 

These  tribes  of  slaves  and  kings  ? 


66 


Fays 

One  secret  night  I  stood  where  ocean  pours 
Eternal  waters  on  the  yellow  shores, 
And  saw  the  drift  of  fays  that  Prosper  saw : 
(Their  feet  had  no  more  sound  than  blowing 

straw. ) 

And  little  hands  held  light  in  little  hands 
They  chased  a  fleeing  billow  down  the  sands, 
But  turned  in  the  nick  o'  time,  and  mad  with 

glee 
Raced  back  again  before  the  swelling  sea. 


In  Death  Valley 

There  came  gray  stretches  of  volcanic  plains, 
Bare,  lone  and  treeless,  then  a  bleak  lone  hill, 
Like  to  the  dolorous  hill  that  Dobell  saw. 
Around  were  heaps  of  ruins  piled  between 
The  Burn  o'  Sorrow  and  the  Water  oj  Care ; 
And  from  the  stillness  of  the  down-crushed  walls 
One  pillar  rose  up  dark  against  the  moon. 
There  was  a  nameless  Presence  everywhere  ; 
In  the  gray  soil  there  was  a  purple  stain, 
And  the  gray  reticent  rocks  were  dyed  with 

blood  — 

Blood  of  a  vast  unknown  Calamity. 
It  was  the  mark  of  some  ancestral  grief- 
Grief  that  began  before  the  ancient  Flood. 


68 


At   Dawn 

Just  then  the  branches  lightly  stirred.    . 
See,  out  o'  the  apple  boughs  a  bird 
Bursts  music-mad  into  the  blue  abyss  : 
Rothschild  would  give  his  gold  for  this- 
The  wealth  of  nations,  if  he  knew : 
(And  find  a  profit  in  the  business,  too.) 


«  Follow   Me  ' 

0  friend,  we  never  choose  the  better  part 
Until  we  set  the  Cross  up  in  the  heart. 

1  know  I  cannot  live  until  I  die  — 
Till  I  am  nailed  upon  it  wild  and  high, 

And  sleep  in  the  tomb  for  a  full  three  days  dead, 
With  angels  at  the  feet  and  at  the  head. 
But  then  in  a  great  brightness  I  shall  rise 
To  walk  with  stiller  feet  below  the  skies. 


7° 


In    Poppy    Fields 

Here  the  poppy  hosts  assemble  : 
How  they  startle,  how  they  tremble 
All  their  royal  hoods  unpinned 
Blow  out  lightly  in  the  wind. 
Here  is  gold  to  labor  for; 
Here  is  pillage  worth  a  war. 

Men  that  in  the  cities  grind, 
Come !   before  the  heart  is  blind. 


The  Joy   of  the    Hills 

I  ride  on  the  mountain  tops,  I  ride; 
I  have  found  my  life  and  am  satisfied. 
Onward  I  ride  in  the  blowing  oats, 
Checking  the  field-lark's  rippling  notes  — 

Lightly  I  sweep 

From  steep  to  steep : 

Over  my  head  through  the  branches  high 
Come  glimpses  of  a  rushing  sky ; 
The  tall  oats  brush  my  horse's  flanks; 
Wild  poppies  crowd  on  the  sunny  banks; 
A  bee  booms  out  of  the  scented  grass ; 
A  jay  laughs  with  me  as  I  pass. 

72 


The  Joy  of  the  Hills 

I  ride  on  the  hills,  I  forgive,  I  forget 

Life's  hoard  of  regret  — 

All  the  terror  and  pain 

Of  the  chafing  chain. 

Grind  on,  O  cities,  grind: 

I  leave  you  a  blur  behind. 
I  am  lifted  elate  —  the  skies  expand: 
Here  the  world's  heaped  gold  is  a  pile  of  sand. 
Let  them  weary  and  work  in  their  narrow  walls : 
I  ride  with  the  voices  of  waterfalls ! 

I  swing  on  as  one  in  a  dream  —  I  swing 
Down  the  airy  hollows,  I  shout,  I  sing! 
The  world  is  gone  like  an  empty  word : 
My  body's  a  bough  in  the  wind,  my  heart  a  bird! 


73 


The   Invisible    Bride 

The  low-voiced  girls  that  go 

In  gardens  of  the  Lord, 
Like  flowers  of  the  field  they  grow 

In  sisterly  accord. 

Their  whispering  feet  are  white 

Along  the  leafy  ways; 
They  go  in  whirls  of  light 

Too  beautiful  for  praise. 

And  in  their  band  forsooth 

Is  one  to  set  me  free  — 
The  one  that  touched  my  youth  — 

The  one  God  gave  to  me. 

74 


The  Invisible  Bride 

She  kindles  the  desire 

Whereby  the  gods  survive  — 
The  white  ideal  fire 

That  keeps  my  soul  alive. 

Now  at  the  wondrous  hour 
She  leaves  her  star  supreme, 

And  comes  in  the  night's  still  power 
To  touch  me  with  a  dream. 

Sibyl  of  mystery 

On  roads  beyond  our  ken, 
Softly  she  comes  to  me, 

And  goes  to  God  again. 


75 


The   Valley 

I  know  a  valley  in  the  summer  hills, 
Haunted  by  little  winds  and  daffodils; 
Faint  footfalls  and  soft  shadows  pass  at  noon; 
Noiseless,  at  night,  the  clouds  assemble  there  ; 
And  ghostly  summits  hang  below  the  moon  — 
Dim  visions  lightly  swung  in  silent  air. 


The    Climb   of  Life 

There's  a  feel  of  all  things  flowing, 

And  no  power  of  Earth  can  bind  them  ; 
There's  a  sense  of  all  things  growing, 
And  through  all  their  forms  a-glowing 
Of  the  shaping  souls  behind  them. 


And  the  break  of  beauty  heightens 

With  the  swiftening  of  the  motion, 
And  the  soul  behind  it  lightens, 
As  a  gleam  of  splendor  whitens 
From  a  running  wave  of  ocean. 

77 


The  Climb  of  Life 

See  the  still  hand  of  the  Shaper, 
Moving  in  the  dusk  of  being : 
Burns  at  first  a  misty  taper, 
Like  the  moon  in  veil  of  vapor, 
When  the  rack  of  night  is  fleeing. 

In  the  stone  a  dream  is  sleeping, 
Just  a  tinge  of  life,  a  tremor ; 
In  the  tree  a  soul  is  creeping  — 
Last,  a  rush  of  angels  sweeping 

With  the  skies  beyond  the  dreamer. 

So  the  Lord  of  Life  is  flinging 

Out  a  splendor  that  conceals  Him  : 
And  the  God  is  softly  singing, 
And  on  secret  ways  is  winging, 

Till  the  rush  of  song  reveals  Him. 


The   Tragedy 

Oh,  the  fret  of  the  brain, 

And  the  wounds  and  the  worry  ; 

Oh,  the  thought  of  love  and  the  thought  of 

death  - 
And  the  soul  in  its  silent  hurry. 

But  the  stars  break  above, 

And  the  fields  flower  under  ; 
And  the  tragical  life  of  man  goes  on, 

Surrounded  by  beauty  and  wonder. 


79 


Divine  Vision 

Can  it  be  the  Master  knows 
How  the  Cosmic  Blossom  blows  ? 

Yes,  at  times  the  Lord  of  Light 
Breaks  forth  wonderful  and  white, 
And  He  strikes  a  corded  lyre 
In  a  rush  of  whirlwind  fire; 
And  He  sees  before  Him  pass 
Souls  and  planets  in  a  glass ; 
And  within  the  music  hears 
All  the  motions  of  all  spheres, 
All  the  whispers  of  all  feet, 
Cries  of  triumph  and  retreat, 
Songs  of  systems  and  of  souls, 
Circling  to  their  mighty  goals. 

So  the  Lord  of  Light  beholds 
How  the  Cosmic  Flower  unfolds. 

80 


Midsummer  Noon 


Yonder  a  workman,  under  the  cool  bridge, 
Resting  at  mid-day,  watches  the  glancing  midge, 
While  twinkling  lights  and  murmurs  of  the  stream 
Pass  into  the  dim  fabric  of  his  dream. 
The  misty  hollows  and  the  drowsy  ridge  - 
How  like  an  airy  fantasy  they  seem  ! 


81 


One  Life,  One  Law 

What  do  we  know  —  what  need  we  know 
Of  the  great  world  to  which  we  go  ? 
We  peer  into  the  tomb,  and  hark  : 
Its  walls  are  dim,  its  doors  are  dark. 

Be  still,  O  mourning  heart,  nor  seek 
To  make  the  tongueless  silence  speak : 
Be  still,  be  strong,  nor  wish  to  find 
Their  way  who  leave  the  world  behind  — 
Voices  and  forms  forever  gone 
Into  the  darkness  of  the  dawn. 

What  is  their  wisdom,  clear  and  deep  ? 
That  as  men  sow  they  surely  reap, — 
That  every  thought,  that  every  deed, 
Is  sown  into  the  soul  for  seed. 
They  have  no  word  we  do  not  know, — 
Nor  yet  the  cherubim  aglow 
With  God :   we  know  that  virtue  saves, — 
They  know  no  more  beyond  the  graves. 
82 


Griefs 


The  rains  of  winter  scourged  the  weald, 
For  days  they  darkened  on  the  field: 
Now,  where  the  wings  of  winter  beat, 
The  poppies  ripple  in  the  wheat. 

And  pitiless  griefs  came  thick  and  fast  — 
Life's  bough  was  naked  in  the  blast - 
Till  silently  amid  the  gloom 
They  blew  the  wintry  heart  to  bloom. 


- '     or 

~* 


An  Old  Road 

A  host  of  poppies,  a  flight  of  swallows  ; 
A  flurry  of  rain,  and  a  wind  that  follows 
Shepherds  the  leaves  in  the  sheltered  hollows, 
For  the  forest  is  shaken  and  thinned. 

Over  my  head  are  the  firs  for  rafter  ; 
The  crows  blow  south,  and  my  heart  goes  after ; 
I  kiss  my  hands  to  the  world  with  laughter  — 
Is  it  Aidenn  or  mystical  Ind? 

Oh,  the  whirl  of  the  fields  in  the  windy  weather 
How  the  barley  breaks  and  blows  together  ! 
Oh,  glad  is  the  free  bird  afloat  on  the  heather— 
Oh,  the  whole  world  is  glad  of  the  wind ! 


The  New-Comers 

Two  swallows — each  preening  a  long  glossy 

feather ; 
Now  they  gossip  and  dart  through  the  silvery 

weather ; 

Oh,  praise  to  the  Highest  —  two  lovers  together 
Free,  free,  in  the  fathomless  world  of  air. 

No  fate  to  oppose  and  no  fortune  to  sunder; 
Blue  sky  overhead — green  sea  breaking  under; 
And  their  home  on  the  cliff  in  the  midst  of  the 

wonder, 
Hung  high  beyond  fear  on  the  gray  granite 

stair. 


Music 

It  is  the  last  appeal  to  man  — 
Voice  crying  since  the  world  began; 
The  cry  of  the  Ideal  —  cry 
To  aspirations  that  would  die. 
The  last  appeal !   in  it  is  heard 
The  pathos  of  the  final  word. 

Voice  tender  and  heroical  — 
Imperious  voice  that  knoweth  well 
To  wreck  the  reasonings  of  years, 
To  strengthen  rebel  hearts  with  tears. 


86 


Fay  Song 

My  life  is  a  dream  —  a  dream 

In  the  moon's  cool  beam; 

Some  day  I  shall  wake  and  desire 

A  touch  of  the  infinite  fire. 

But  now  'tis  enough  that  I  be 

In  the  light  of  the  sea; 

Enough  that  I  climb  with  the  cloud 

When  the  winds  of  the  morning  are  loud; 

Enough  that  I  fade  with  the  stars 

When  the  door  of  the  East  unbars. 


The  Old  Earth 

How  will  it  be  if  there  we  find  no  traces — 
There  in  the  Golden  Heaven  —  if  we  find 
No  memories  of  the  old  Earth  left  behind, 
No  visions  of  familiar  forms  and  faces  — 
Reminders  of  old  voices  and  old  places? 
Yet  could  we  bear  it  if  it  should  remind  ? 


88 


Divine  Adventure 

At  times  a  youth  (so  whispered  legend  tells), 

Like  Hylas,  stoops  to  drink 

By  forest-hidden  brink, 

And  fair  hands  draw  him  down  to  darkened  wells; 

Fair  hands  that  hold  him  fast 

With  laughter  at  the  last 

Have  power  to  draw  him  lightly  down  to  be 

In  elfin  chambers  under  the  gray  sea. 

And  I,  O  men  of  Earth,  I  too, 

When  dawn  was  at  the  dew, 

Was  drawn  as  Hylas  downward  and  beheld 

Spirits  of  youth  and  eld  — 


Divine  Adventure 

Was  swung  down  endless  caverns  to  the  deep, 
Saw  fervid  jewels  sparkle  in  their  sleep, 
Saw  glad  gnomes  working  in  the  dusty  light, 
Saw  great  rocks  crouching  in  the  primal  night. 
I  was  drawn  down,  and  after  many  days 
Returned  with  stiller  feet  to  walk  the  upper  ways. 


90 


Song  Made  Flesh 

I  have  no  glory  in  these  songs  of  mine : 

If  one  of  them  can  make  a  brother  strong, 

It  came  down  from  the  peaks  of  the  divine  — 
I  heard  it  in  the  Heaven  of  Lyric  Song. 

The  one  who  builds  the  poem  into  fact, 

He  is  the  rightful  owner  of  it  all : 
The  pale  words  are  with  God's  own  power  packed 

When  brave  souls  answer  to  their  bugle-call, 

And  so  I  ask  no  man  to  praise  my  song, 
But  I  would  have  him  build  it  in  his  soul ; 

For  that  great  praise  would  make  me  glad  and  strong, 
And  build  the  poem  to  a  perfect  whole. 


91 


To  High-born  Poets 

There  comes  a  pitiless  cry  from  the  oppressed  — 

A  cry  from  the  toilers  of  Babylon  for  their  rest.- 

O  Poet,  thou  art  holden  with  a  vow: 

The  light  of  higher  worlds  is  on  thy  brow, 

And  Freedom's  star  is  soaring  in  thy  breast. 

Go,  be  a  dauntless  voice,  a  bugle-cry 

In  darkening  battle  when  the  winds  are  high  — 

A  clear  sane  cry  wherein  the  God  is  heard 

To  speak  to  men  the  one  redeeming  word. 

No  peace  for  thee,  no  peace, 

Till  blind  oppression  cease; 

The  stones  cry  from  the  walls, 

Till  the  gray  injustice  falls  — 
Till  strong  men  come  to  build  in  freedom-fate 
The  pillars  of  the  new  Fraternal  State. 

92 


To  High-born  Poets 

Let  trifling  pipe  be  mute, 

Fling  by  the  languid  lute : 

Take  down  the  trumpet  and  confront  the  Hour, 
And  speak  to  toil-worn  nations  from  a  tower  — 
Take  down  the  horn  wherein  the  thunders  sleep, 
Blow  battles  into  men  —  call  down  the  fire  — 
The  daring,  the  long  purpose,  the  desire; 
Descend  with  faith  into  the  Human  Deep, 
And  ringing  to  the  troops  of  right  a  cheer, 
Make  known  the  Truth  of  Man  in  holy  fear; 
Send  forth  thy  spirit  in  a  storm  of  song, 
A  tempest  flinging  fire  upon  the  wrong. 


93 


The  Toilers 

Their  blind  feet  drift  in  the  darkness,  and  no  one 

is  leading; 
Their  toil  is  the  pasture,  where  hyens  and  harpies 

are  feeding; 
In  all  lands  and  always,  the  wronged,  the  homeless, 

the  humbled 
Till  the  cliff-like  pride  of  the  spoiler  is  shaken  and 

crumbled, 
Till  the   Pillars  of   Hell  are  uprooted    and   left  to 

their  ruin, 
And  a  rose  garden  gladdens  the  places  no  rose  ever 

blew  in, 

94 


The  Toilers 

Where  now  men  huddle  together  and  whisper  and 

harken, 
Or  hold  their  bleak  hands  over  embers  that  die  out 

and  darken. 
The  anarchies    gather  and  thunder:    few,   few  are 

the  fraters, 
And  loud  is  the  revel  at  night  in  the  camp  of  the 

traitors. 
Say,  Shelley,  where  are  you — where  are  you?  our 

hearts  are  a-breaking ! 
The  fight  in   the   terrible    darkness — the  shame  - 

the  forsaking ! 

The    leaves    shower    down    and    are    sport    for   the 

winds  that  come  after; 
And  so  are  the  Toilers  in  all  lands  the  jest  and  the 

laughter 
Of  nobles  —  the  Toilers  scourged  on  in  the  furrow 

as  cattle, 
Or  flung  as  a  meat  to  the  cannons  that  hunger  in 

battle. 


95 


On  the  Gulf  of  Night 

The  world's  sad  petrels  dwell  for  evermore 

On  windy  headland  or  on  ocean  floor, 

Or  pierce  the  violent  skies  with  perilous  flights 

That  fret  men  in  their  palaces  o'  nights, 

Breaking  enchanted  slumber's  easeful  boat 

With  shudderings  of  their  wild  and  dolorous  note ; 

They  blow  about  the  black  and  barren  skies, 

They  fill  the  night  with  ineffectual  cries. 

There  is  for  them  not  anything  before, 

But  sound  of  sea  and  sight  of  soundless  shore, 

96 


On  the  Gulf  of  Night 

Save  when  the  darkness  glimmers  with  a  ray, 
And  Hope  sings  softly,  Soon  it  will  be  day. 
Then  for  a  golden  space  the  shades  are  thinned, 
And  dawn  seems  blowing  seaward  on  the  wind. 
But  soon  the  dark  comes  wilder  than  before, 
And  swift  around  them  breaks  a  sullen  roar; 
The  tempest  calls  to  windward  and  to  lea, 
And  —  they  are  sea-birds  on  the  homeless  sea. 


97 


A  Harvest  Song 

The  gray  bulk  of  the  granaries  uploom  against  the 

sky; 
The  harvest  moon  has  dwindled  —  they  have  housed 

the  corn  and  rye; 
And  now  the  idle  reapers  lounge  against  the  bolted 

doors  — 
Without  are   hungry  harvesters,   within    enchanted 

stores. 

Lo,  they  had  bread  while  they  were  out  a-toiling  in 

the  sun: 
Now  they  are  strolling  beggars,  for  the  harvest  work 

is  done. 

98 


A  Harvest  Song 

They  are  the  gods  of  husbandry :  they  gather  in  the 
sheaves, 

But  when  the  autumn  strips  the  wood,  they're  drift 
ing  with  the  leaves. 

They  plow  and  sow  and  gather  in  the  glory  of  the 

corn; 
They  know  the  noon,  they  know  the  pitiless  rains 

before  the  morn ; 
They    know    the    sweep    of   furrowed    fields    that 

darken  in  the  gloom - 
A  little  while  their  hope  on   earth,  then  evermore 

their  tomb. 


99 


Two  Taverns 

I  remember  how  I  lay 
On  a  bank  a  summer  day, 
Peering  into  weed  and  flower: 
Watched  a  poppy  all  one  hour; 
Watched  it  till  the  air  grew  chill 
In  the  darkness  of  the  hill ; 
Till  I  saw  a  wild  bee  dart 
Out  of  the  cold  to  the  poppy's  heart; 
Saw  the  petals  gently  spin, 
And  shut  the  little  lodger  in. 
Then  I  took  the  quiet  road 
To  my  own  secure  abode. 
All  night  long  his  tavern  hung; 
Now  it  rested,  now  it  swung; 
I  asleep  in  steadfast  tower, 
He  asleep  in  stirring  flower; 
In  our  hearts  the  same  delight 
In  the  hushes  of  the  night ; 
O'er  us  both  the  same  dear  care 
As  we  slumbered..unaware. 
100 


The  Man  Under  the  Stone 

When  I  see  a  workingman  with  mouths  to  feed, 
Up,  day  after  day,  in  the  dark  before  the  dawn, 
And  coming  home,  night  after  night,  through  the 

dusk, 

Swinging  forward  like  some  fierce  silent  animal, 
I  see  a  man  doomed  to  roll  a  huge  stone  up  an 

endless  steep. 

He  strains  it  onward  inch  by  stubborn  inch, 
Crouched  always  in  the  shadow  of  the  rock.   .    .    . 
See  where  he  crouches,  twisted,  cramped,  mis 
shapen  ! 

101 


The  Man  under  the  Stone 

He  lifts  for  their  life ; 

The  veins  knot  and  darken — 

Blood  surges  into  his  face.   .   .   . 

Now  he  loses — now  he  wins — 

Now  he  loses — loses  —  (God  of  my  soul!) 

He  digs  his  feet  into  the  earth  - 

There's  a  moment  of  terrified  effort.   .   .   . 

Will  the  huge  stone  break  his  hold, 

And  crush  him  as  it  plunges  to  the  gulf? 

The  silent  struggle  goes  on  and  on, 
Like  two  contending  in  a  dream. 


102 


Song  to  the  Divine  Mother* 

Come,  Mighty  Mother,  from  the  bright  abode, 
Lift  the  low   heavens  and   hush   the   Earth 

again ; 
Come  when  the  moon  throws  down  a  shining 

road 
Across  the  sea  —  come  back  to  weary  men. 

*  This  song  should  be  read  in  the  light  of  the  deep  and  memorable  truth  that  the  Divine 
Feminine  as  well  as  the  Divine  Masculine  Principle  is  in  God  —  that  he  is  Father-Mother, 
Two-in-One.  It  follows  from  this  truth  that  the  dignity  of  womanhood  is  grounded  in  the 
Divine  Nature  itself.  The  fact  that  the  Deity  is  Man- Woman  was  known  to  the  ancient 
poets  and  sages,  and  was  grafted  into  the  nobler  religions  of  mankind.  The  idea  is  implied 
in  the  doctrine  of  the  Divine  Father,  taught  by  our  Lord  in  the  Gospels  ;  and  it  is  declared 
in  the  first  chapter  of  Genesis  in  the  words  :  "  God  said,  'Let  Us  make  man  in  Our 
image,  after  Our  likeness.'  ...  So  God  created  man  in  His  own  image,  in  the  image 
of  God  created  He  him  5  male  and  female  created  He  them.  ' 

I03 


Song  to  the  Divine  Mother 

But  if  the  moon  throws  out  across  the  sea 
Too  dim  a  light,  too  wavering  a  way, 

Come  when  the  sunset  paves  a  path  for  Thee 
Across  the  waters  fading  into  gray. 

Dead  nations  saw  Thee  dimly  in  release  — 
In  Aphrodite  rising  from  the  foam : 

Some  glimmer  of  Thy  beauty  was  on  Greece, 
Some  trembling  of  Thy  passion  was  on  Rome. 

Come  down,  O  Mother,  to  the  helpless  land, 
That  we  may  frame  our  Freedom  into  Fate: 

Come  down,  and  on  the  throne  of  nations  stand, 
That  we  may  build  Thy  beauty  in  the  State. 

Come  shining  in  upon  our  daily  road, 

Uphold  the  hero  heart  and  light  the  mind; 

Quicken  the  strong  to  lift  the  People's  load, 
And  bring  back  buried  justice  to  mankind. 

Shine  through  the  frame  of  nations  for  a  light, 

Move  through  the  hearts  of  heroes  in  a  song : 
It  is  Thy  beauty,  wilder  than  the  night, 

That  hushed  the  heavens  and  keeps  the  high 
gods  strong. 

104 


Song  to  the  Divine  Mother 

I  know,  Supernal  Woman,  Thou  dost  seek 
No  song  of  man,  no  worship  and  no  praise ; 

But  Thou  wouldst  have  dead  lips  begin  to  speak, 
And  dead  feet  rise  to  walk  immortal  ways. 

Yet  listen,  Mighty  Mother,  to  the  child 

Who  has  no  voice  but  song  to  tell  his  grief- 
Nothing  but  tears  and  broken  numbers  wild, 
Nothing  but  woodland  music  for  relief. 

His  song  is  but  a  little  broken  cry, 

Less  than  the  whisper  of  a  river  reed ; 

Yet  thou  canst  hear  in  it  the  souls  that  die  — 
Feel  in  its  pain  the  vastness  of  our  need. 

I  would  not  break  the  mouth  of  song  to  tell 

My  life's  long  passion  and  my  heart's  long  grief, 

But  Thou  canst  hear  the  ocean  in  one  shell, 
And  see  the  whole  world's  winter  in  one  leaf. 

So  here  I  stand  at  the  world's  weary  feet, 

And  cry  the  sorrow  of  the  world's  dumb  years : 

I  cry  because  I  hear  the  world's  heart  beat, 
Weary  of  hope  and  broken  through  by  tears. 

105 


Song  to  the  Divine  Mother 

For  ages  Thou  hast  breathed  upon  mankind 
A  faint  wild  tenderness,  a  vague  desire; 

For  ages  stilled  the  whirlwinds  of  the  mind, 
And  sent  on  lyric  seers  the  rush  of  fire. 

Some  day  our  homeless  cries  will  draw  Thee  down, 
And  the  old  brightness  on  the  ways  of  men 

Will  send  a  hush  upon  the  jangling  town, 
And  broken  hearts  will  learn  to  love  again. 

Come,  Bride  of  God,  to  fill  the  vacant  Throne, 
Touch  the  dim  Earth  again  with  sacred  feet; 

Come  build  the  Holy  City  of  white  stone, 

And  let  the  whole  world's  gladness  be  complete. 

Come  with  the  face  that  hushed  the  heavens 

of  old- 
Come  with  Thy  maidens  in  a  mist  of  light ; 

Haste,  for  the  night  falls  and  the  shadows  fold, 
And  voices  cry  and  wander  on  the  height. 


1 06 


The  Flying  Mist 

I  watch  afar  the  moving  Mystery, 
The  wool-shod,  formless  terror  of  the  sea— 
The  Mystery  whose  lightest  touch  can  change 
The  world  God  made  to  phantasy,  death-strange. 
Under  its  spell  all  things  grow  old  and  gray 
As  they  will  be  beyond  the  Judgment  Day. 
All  voices,  at  the  lifting  of  some  hand, 
Seem  calling  to  us  from  another  land. 
Is  it  the  still  Power  of  the  Sepulcher 
That  makes  all  things  the  wraiths  of  things  that 
were  ? 

It  touches,  one  by  one,  the  wayside  posts, 
And  they  are  gone,  a  line  of  hurrying  ghosts. 
It  creeps  upon  the  towns  with  stealthy  feet, 
And  men  are  phantoms  on  a  phantom  street. 
It  strikes  the  towers  and  they  are  shafts  of  air, 
Above  the  spectres  passing  in  the  square. 

107 


The  Flying  Mist 

The  city  turns  to  ashes,  spire  by  spire ; 
The  mountains  perish  with  their  peaks  afire. 
The  fading  city  and  the  falling  sky 
Are  swallowed  in  one  doom  without  a  cry. 

It  tracks  the  traveler  fleeing  with  the  gale, 
Fleeing  toward  home  and  friends  without  avail ; 
It  springs  upon  him  and  he  is  a  ghost, 
A  blurred  shape  moving  on  a  soundless  coast. 
God !   it  pursues  my  love  along  the  stream, 
Swirls  round  her  and  she  is  forever  dream. 
What  Hate  has  touched  the  universe  with  eld, 
And  left  me  only  in  a  world  dispelled? 


1 08 


From  the  Hand  of  a  Child 

One  day  a  child  ran  after  me  in  the  street, 
To  give  me  a  half-blown  rose,  a  fire-white  rose, 
Its  stem  all  warm  yet  from  the  tight-shut  hand. 
The  little  gift  seemed  somehow  more  to  me 
Than  all  men  strive  for  in  the  turbid  towns, 
Than  all  they  hoard  up  through  a  long  wild  life. 
And  as  I  breathed  the  heart-breath  of  the  flower, 
The  Youth  of  Earth  broke  on  me  like  a  dawn, 
And  I  was  with  the  wide-eyed  wondering  things, 
Back  in  the  far  forgotten  buried  time. 
A  lost  world  came  back  softly  with  the  rose: 
I  saw  a  glad  host  follow  with  lusty  cries 

109 


From  the  Hand  of  a  Child 

Diana  flying  with  her  maidens  white, 
Down  the  long  reaches  of  the  laureled  hills. 
Above  the  sea  I  saw  a  wreath  of  girls, 
Fading  to  air  in  far-off  poppy  fields. 
I  saw  a  blithe  youth  take  the  open  road : 
His  thoughts  ran  on  before  him  merrily; 
Sometimes  he  dipped  his  feet  in  stirring  brooks; 
At  night  he  slept  upon  a  bed  of  boughs.   .   .   . 

This  in  my  soul.      Then  suddenly  a  shape, 
A  spectre  wearing  yet  the  mask  of  dust, 
Jostled  against  me  as  he  passed,  and  lo ! 
The  jarring  city  and  the  drift  of  feet 
Surged  back  upon  me  like  the  grieving  sea. 


I  10 


At  the  Meeting  of  Seven  Valleys 

At  the  meeting  of  seven  valleys  in  the  west, 

I  came  upon  a  host  of  silent  souls, 

Seated  beside  still  waters  on  the  grass. 

It  was  a  place  of  memories  and  tears  — 

Terrible  tears.      I  rested  in  a  wood, 

And  there  the  bird  that  mourns  for  Itys  sang  — 

Itys  that  touched  the  tears  of  all  the  world. 

But  climbing  onward  toward  the  purple  peaks, 

I  passed,  on  silent  feet,  white  multitudes, 

Beyond  the  reach  of  peering  memories, 

Lying  asleep  upon  the  scented  banks, 

Their  bodies  burning  with  celestial  fire. 

A  mighty  awe  came  on  me  at  the  thought  — 

The  strangeness  of  the  beatific  sleep, 

The  vision  of  God,  the  mystic  bread  of  rest. 


I  ii 


The  Rock-Breaker 

Pausing  he  leans  upon  his  sledge,  and  looks - 

A  labor-blasted  toiler: 
So  have  I  seen,  on  Shasta's  top,  a  pine 

Stand  silent  on  a  cliff, 
Stript  of  its  glory  of  green  leaves  and  boughs, 

Its  great  trunk  split  by  fire, 
Its  gray  bark  blackened  by  the  thunder-smoke, 

Its  life  a  sacrifice 
To  some  blind  purpose  of  the  Destinies. 


I  12 


These  Songs  Will  Perish 

These  songs  will  perish  like  the  shapes  of  air  — 

The  singer  and  the  songs  die  out  forever; 

But  star-eyed  Truth  (greater  than  song  or  singer) 

Sweeps  hurrying  on :  far  off  she  sees  a  gleam 

Upon  a  peak.      She  cried  to  man  of  old 

To  build  the  enduring,  glad  Fraternal  State  — 

Cries  yet  through  all  the  ruins  of  the  world - 

Through  Karnak,  through  the  stones  of  Babylon  — 

Cries  for  a  moment  through  these  fading  songs. 

On  winged  feet,  a  form  of  fadeless  youth, 
She  goes  to  meet  the  coming  centuries, 

"3 


These  Songs  W^ill  Perish 

And  hurrying,  snatches  up  some  human  reed, 
Blows  through  it  once  her  terror-bearing  note, 
And  breaks  and  throws  away.      It  is  enough 
If  we  can  be  a  bugle  at  her  lips, 
To  scatter  her  contagion  on  mankind. 


114 


USE 

RETURN  TO  DESK7ROM  WHICH  BORRC 

LOAN  DEPT. 

This  book  is  due  on  the  last  date  stamped  below,  or 

on  the  date  to  which  renewed.  „ 

Renewed  books  are  subject  to  ,mmed,ate  * 


?l 


"itz 


181993 


63 


General  Library     . 


GENERAL  LIBRARY  -  U.C.  BERKELEY 


60007=13871 


V  X 

.s\ 


